


keeping the rhythm

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Families of Choice, Intergenerational friendship, Major Original Character(s), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Road Trips, Too much research, the fenders is incidental really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24842188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Late summer, 9:37 DragonThey say it takes a village to raise a child—or a group of twenty fugitive apostates and one occasionally reluctant elf. On the way through Antiva, Fenris finds himself in the surprising position of helping take care of the youngest apostates. Sometimes, that care just means spending some time with a lonely child.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris & Original Female Character
Series: One and the Same [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	keeping the rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Is this me indulging my childhood love of the Oregon Trail game? NO.

Years ago, Fenris had thought children of no great consequence.

He still does not remember his childhood. Even now, with memories creeping back, not many deal with his youngest years. In his adult life, Fenris had encountered very few children; even on Seheron, where he’d lived among civilians, the children were kept far from the front lines.

Danarius had no children of his own, having assigned multiple heirs in his will to divide his estate appropriately. He willed his research to a trusted colleague, certain of his treasures to those he owed favors, and the majority of his estate to a distant niece living far from Minrathous who he thought unlikely to assassinate him to receive her inheritance early. Fenris was unsure of his position in this scheme, but felt reasonably certain that when Danarius went to the grave, he would very shortly follow by one method or another.

Of course, in Kirkwall, he had no reason to encounter children beyond the grubby urchins of the streets and the privileged children of Hightown. In the case of urchins, he had given money and occasionally intimidated a city guard or thief bullying them; in the case of Hightown’s noble children, Fenris had avoided them. The children of the alienage had always given him a wide-eyed berth and Fenris returned the favor.

Now, though…now Fenris feels that he spends every day worrying about children in particular.

At present, Anders is trying to guide this ramshackle caravan of apostates around the worst of the swamps in Antiva’s interior. It isn’t going particularly well. A few of their mercenaries have been providing help. Ornek and Stas, Tal-Vashoth who left from Kont-Arr in northern Rivain, have both taken this road before. The Scar (whose name _truly_ describes her appearance), has taken several jobs as a hireling for the Crows; she has a fair memory of where the most dangerous parts of Antiva and has navigated the company around most of them.

Fenris does his best to keep everyone moving. He’s taken plenty of turns guiding oxen, and picking things up when a bump in the terrible roads sends supplies spilling. He lends his strength to Ashahari when she needs someone to hold up a cart to fix an axle, or another pair of hands to hold a splint against a cracked cart tongue while she cinches it in place with leather straps. Though he doesn’t participate in any foraging, not being good with plants in general, he collects firewood throughout the day and carries it. He helps Shana carry the carcasses of antelope and deer back to camp when she hunts. At night he takes the worst watch of the night.

But his oddest job, and the one he certainly didn’t assign himself, is minding the children.

There are three young children and two boys who are nearly old enough to be considered men, but not quite. Eli (who informs everyone daily that he will soon turn seven) and Alain (eight) are just at the stage of childhood where their greatest priority is throwing mud and hitting one another with sticks. Lea, just turned ten and really coming into her magic, is a strong-minded young lady. “Grandma Maris calls me that,” she told Fenris once, “so you should too.” And then there are the older boys, Athel and Bertrand, who both swing wildly between solemn responsibility and irrepressible zeal. The moods come of youth in a hard life, Fenris thinks, since he somewhat remembers being like that at their age.

For some reason, though there are plenty of other adults who might be more competent at the job, it seems Fenris is forever running after all five.

When Bertrand isn’t taking lessons while they walk from one of the older mages, and when Athel isn’t off with his sister Shana hunting and learning to use a bow, the pair of them will inevitably wander off the trail after something that “looks interesting” and come back with a snake or toxic plant. Or they’ll irritate Ostar (one of the mercenaries) with endless questions until he threatens to kill them both in their sleep; with what he knows of the man’s past, Fenris isn’t entirely sure that it’s an empty threat. He hauls them away from _that_ pastime and puts them to work somewhere else.

Eli and Alain don’t go far from the wagons, both being quite shy, but can and will attempt to put one another’s eyes out with sticks as soon as eyes are off them. Once Eli nearly brained Alain with a rock. Someone has to keep them from running between the legs of the oxen or under the wheels of the cart, too, and that someone is always somehow Fenris.

And then there’s Lea. For the most part, she gets along with the boys. Athel and Bertrand kindly let her tag along, though they’re both more than five years older; Eli and Alain are just near enough to her age to be playmates. But Fenris _does_ notice that she’s often alone during the day, talking to herself as she walks along behind a cart, and sits with the adults around the fire at night.

He mentions it to Anders one evening in the tent, Libertas the cat sitting in his lap while he pets her. “I think she’s lonely,” Fenris says.

“The curse of being a Circle mage,” Anders says wryly. He looks up from the furious writing in his journal. “Most of us are bloody awful at making friends. Comes of Templars making sure we’re all scared of one another.”

“None of the other mages seem to have the problem.”

“Fenris,” Anders says, in the voice that means he thinks Fenris is being dense, “she’s the _only_ girl younger than twenty here. Every other woman is twice her age at _least_.”

“She could play with the boys,” Fenris points out. In his lap, Libertas twists around and bats at his hand. He scratches her ears in reply.

Anders shrugs. “Two of them are too old, and two of them are too immature,” he says. “So she runs off to the grown-ups.”

Fenris makes a face. “She needs friends her own age,” he mutters.

“Good luck finding them out here,” Anders says, gesturing as if to indicate the wilderness of Antiva beyond the thin canvas walls of their tent. “The Circles make us resilient, Fenris. Lea will be fine.”

Libertas has begun to make biscuits on Fenris’ leg, claws tugging at his leggings and sinking lightly into his skin. He endures the prickles. The warm weight of the cat in his lap is always a comfort. “I still feel someone should do something,” he says.

“You could,” Anders says with a shrug.

“She’s hardly ever around me,” Fenris says.

Anders gives him a _look_. “Andraste’s _knickers_ , Fenris,” he says, “how have you _not_ noticed that she follows on your heels all the time?”

Nonplussed, Fenris leans back a little against the edge of their low cot and considers. Thinking about it now, she _has_ been hovering of late. Trotting beside him when he takes his turn guiding oxen, asking questions he absently answers. Picking up the smaller objects when one of the carts spills. Holding the leather straps for Ashahari while she and Fenris fixed the cart tongue. Anxiously asking Fenris if the small sticks she found would be good for kindling while he looked for firewood.

“ _Why_?” he demands at last, looking up at Anders again.

“The same reason Hawke and Isabela and Merrill hung around you in Kirkwall,” Anders says with a shrug. “You might snap and brood like an unhappy mabari half the time, but I’ve never seen you _not_ run to the ends of the earth to keep people safe.”

At that, Fenris furrows his brow. “I did _not_ do that for Merrill.”

Anders raises his eyebrows. “How many missions for her Maker-damned Eluvian did you run along on?” he asks. “You complained the whole time—rightly so—but you still went. And I remember you going to look after trouble in the alienage more than once when she asked.”

Fenris opens his mouth, then closes it. He has no idea what to do with that information.

“Face it, Fenris,” Anders says, leaning across the narrow space between them to kiss Fenris’ cheek lightly. “You’re a knight in shining armor and every woman knows it.”

Fenris leans forward as Anders leans back, eliciting an irritated mew from Libertas. She leaps off his lap, tail twitching, but Fenris ignores her. “And do _you_ ,” he says, resting his forehead against Anders’, “know that I am a knight in shining armor?”

“Of course,” Anders says. His eyes are honey-gold in the fading lamplight and his hand is very warm where it rests against Fenris’ bare upper arm. “ _My_ knight in shining armor.”

All thoughts of practical matters fly out of Fenris’ head for the rest of the night.

They’re on the trail again by dawn. Many are still a little bleary-eyed; after the…exertions of the previous night, Fenris can’t help a few yawns of his own. He walks with Alina for a while, making idle conversation, before moving on to speak to the Scar about some potential dangers of the road ahead. It’s a fair enough morning, the thin clouds giving a little shade and a cool breeze blowing over the waters of the small lake they’re traveling past.

Arnfried calls a halt about noon, just before the heat of the day becomes truly oppressive. The oxen need to graze and drink, and the heat is hard on them when pulling heavy loads. It gives a chance for two cookfires to be set—one with a pair of heavy, lidded iron pots buried in the coals to heat. Arnfried’s wife Wilhelma bakes bread in them, leaving the dough to rise on one of the carts all morning, helped along by a little magic. She’ll make more dough over the rest and set it to rise, to be baked in the evening.

Fenris has no idea how he’s gotten this lucky, to have _fresh bread_ while traveling, but he will not question the good fortune. It’s an oddly tangy bread, much more so than any he’s had before, but always delicious. Anders says such “sourdough” was common among the Ferelden refugees in Darktown, and he’d received it frequently as a donation.

The noon break comes at the northern end of the small lake, right on the shore. As it’s clean water, Yvonne—seamstress and laundress for the whole company—insists that some sort of washing be done before they continue, and enlists the help of some other mages to handle the affair. Fenris makes a point of ducking out of sight before he can be press-ganged into helping carry water.

He doesn’t escape helping carry firewood, though, since years of hiking with Hawke all over the Wounded Coast and up and down Sundermount made him rather good at building fires. Any of the mages here can light a fire, but keeping one lit seems a bit beyond them. They’re learning.

At this point, Fenris is entirely used to meals consisting strictly of beans flavored with salt (and wild garlic if they’re lucky), and thin cornmeal cakes. Thanks to Arnfried’s milk cow, they have more than enough milk to drink _and_ , since Halan is ambitious in learning everything he can about “natural processes,” even those related to kitchen affairs, an odd kind of cheese. There’s also more than enough butter to prepare everything, even for nearly thirty people.

There are things to forage, too: Oudin was quite the student of plants in the Circle, and has a frighteningly encyclopedic knowledge of edible plants. Nettles, earthy and sharp, are a welcome relief from the monotony of beans and cattail roots are reminiscent of potatoes. Many fruits and nuts are in season, resulting in a few novel desserts. Mushrooms, approached warily, offer a little more variety.

Sooner or later (and it will likely be sooner), they’ll begin running low on supplies. There were only so many dried beans, only so much cornmeal, only so much wheat flour, to buy. They’ve been out of salted meat since crossing the border to Antiva. Staying far away from civilization, there’s not many chances to resupply. And the foraging and hunting, as the season grows later and they go further north into hotter, drier country, will dwindle.

But, for now, food is not a pressing worry. Shana and Tegren—a mercenary good with the crossbow—had gone on ahead earlier in the day and have been waiting here with a large goose and a brace of pheasants, which will make for a good meal.

Fenris is no great hand with cooking and politely bows out of helping. He finds himself wandering the camp with little else to do. Those with work are busy at it, including Anders, healing Fabian’s twisted ankle. After a little while, Fenris sits on the side of one of the carts and merely watches the goings-on around him.

A small commotion off to the side attracts his eye. Fenris turns to see Lea sprinting away from Bertrand and Athel, right off the trail and into the deep grass on the other side. They look bemused and, when Fenris comes up to him, turn identical looks of panic on him.

“We just told her to leave us alone,” Bertrand says. “Honestly.”

“I’ll go find her,” Fenris says. He waves the boys off and heads into the grass himself.

On the edge of the trail there’s a sudden drop which, after Fenris narrowly avoids tripping over his feet, leaves him standing amid grass taller than he is. It’s nearly as tall as Anders, and thick—so much so that as Fenris takes a few steps forward, the sounds of the camp are completely muffled. Fleetingly, he wonders if he should go back for his sword, but decides otherwise. Lea is too sensible to have run far.

Her trail is obvious, the grass pushed aside and broken down in her passing. It’s cool down here, shady, and the ground beneath Fenris’ feet is damp, sinking into real mud puddles in places. Save for the water gradually soaking through his leggings, he doesn’t mind. It’s a relief, after walking all day on the dry, dusty road.

Lea really didn’t go far. Perhaps twenty feet from the road, he finds her sitting looking miserable on a large stone jutting from the ground. She looks up, lip wobbling, and promptly bursts into tears.

What is he supposed to do?

Fenris sits down on the rock beside her. Should he offer comforting words? A reassuring pat on the shoulder? What does one _do_ for a crying child? Once or twice, he thinks of something to say, before realizing it’s nonsensical.

His silence stretches on long enough that Lea’s tears eventually stop on their own. She rubs at her face and says thickly, “I’m sorry I ran off.”

“No harm done,” Fenris says.

“It was cowardly,” Lea mumbles. She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

Fenris looks down at her. “Sometimes running away is the better part of valor,” he says. “Were the other apostates cowards, running from the Circle?”

Lea looks up with watery eyes and a blotchy face. “Yes,” she says. “We should have stayed and fought, I heard Malota say so. And I heard people say we’re running away ’cause we’re scared.”

He’ll be having a word with the others later about having ethical debates where the children can hear. “Fear does not mean you are not brave,” Fenris says. “Anders was afraid when he destroyed the Chantry. I’m sure Alina was afraid when she smashed your phylactery. That does not make those actions any less courageous.”

“Okay,” Lea says. It’s hesitant—she doesn’t quite believe him, but then again Fenris sometimes questions the wisdom of things like what he just said.

“The issue of cowardice aside,” Fenris says, looking up idly at a bird of prey circling far overhead, “why did you run off?”

“They told me to go away, so I went,” Lea says. Her defiant tone still sounds tearful.

Fenris nods. “Were they cruel about it?”

“No,” Lea says. Fenris looks down to see her rubbing her eyes again. “They were nice. They’re nice every time.”

A little wrathfully, Fenris thinks of what he told Anders about someone needing to do something about this _before_ Lea was running away into the marsh. “I see,” he says.

Some of the tenor of his thoughts must have crept out into his words. “Are you mad at me?” Lea asks in a small voice.

“ _No_ ,” Fenris says, startled. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “I am angry that…circumstances have conspired to make you unhappy.”

“Oh.” Lea tugs at her braids, both of which are falling out from a long day and then a run out into the marsh. “I think I’m angry too.”

“And what will you do with that?” Fenris asks. He thinks wryly of his time in Kirkwall, perpetually angry in his helplessness against the specters of his past, as he continues. “Anger held inside will only make you more unhappy, Lea.”

Lea scowls. “I wish I could just fight a Templar. _That_ would make me happy.”

“You are a little inexperienced for that,” Fenris says, hiding a smile. “Perhaps you could spend more time learning about your magic, to pass the time.”

She brightens a little. “Yes!” And then her face darkens. “I still won’t have anyone to play with.”

“You will have to be patient,” Fenris says. He does put a hand on her thin shoulder, then, taking note of how _fragile_ Lea is. The life of an apostate is not kind to her. “There will be other children, sooner or later. But not now.”

Lea sighs. She folds her hands in her lap. “I can be patient,” she mutters. “I _guess_.”

“Good,” Fenris says, lightly squeezing her shoulder. “I think the meal should be ready. We should rejoin the others.”

“I’ll get scolded,” Lea says, still doleful. “My braids are a mess.”

“That, I can fix,” Fenris says. At Lea’s confused look, Fenris shrugs. “Do you really think Anders braids his own hair every day?”

Lea bursts into giggles as she turns her back for Fenris to fix her braids. He does so quickly and deftly—she’s _much_ better at sitting still than Anders—and gives her a light pat on the head when he’s done. Lea quietly takes his hand as they make their way back to the camp. Fenris doesn’t object.

He has a brief word with Brithari, likeliest to notice Lea’s wet shoes and the damp hem of her robe, and asks her to let it go. Brithari replies that if she does _that_ , then he’ll have to braid Lea’s hair every morning: “She will never sit still for me,” Brithari complains. Fenris doesn’t comment.

“I can’t help but notice,” Anders says, when things are in motion after the meal (which is indeed beans, sour bread, and a bit of goose cooked in a pan), “that Lea looks markedly happier than she did when we set out this morning.”

“I was right, she _is_ lonely,” Fenris says. He steps over a deep rut in the road, watching the ground with pointed interest.

Anders sounds like he’s smiling. “And _someone_ did something about that?”

“Do not turn this into a production, mage,” Fenris says, rolling his eyes. He looks up at Anders. “I did what I thought was right.”

Anders nods. He looks ahead at the carts rolling forward, at Lea talking a blue streak at a very patient Yvonne, and shrugs. “Well, I hope you keep that up,” he says. “ _You_ seem happier, too.”

If Fenris scoffs at that it’s for show, and, by his smug smile, Anders knows it. It feels good to have helped—to have made sure Lea wasn’t lonely, if only for a few minutes. Fenris knows too well how that feels to allow a child to suffer the same way. Until Lea has friends her own age, Fenris will do what he can to help.

Children, as it turns out, are of far greater consequence than he’d ever thought before.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay yes this is an excuse to play Oregon Trail with my characters, HUSH. 
> 
> I’ve tried to strike a reasonable balance on the issues of food and transport. On one hand, these are people who do not have much if any money and are actively fleeing from people who want to kill them. That makes it hard to get more supplies. On the other hand, they’re a reasonably ingenious group of people, traveling through lands fairly rich in natural resources, with multiple survival experts on board. Things might be rough, but I don’t think anyone is starving.
> 
> Food on the Oregon Trail usually came down to beans and bacon. Flour, cornmeal, vinegar, and salt were also staples. I’ve handed this group untold riches by giving them a cow, because one cow in a day can produce up to four gallons of milk—which is a frankly ridiculous amount even for thirty people, if you’re not drinking it all. That means you have the ability to get butter, cheese, whey, buttermilk, and cream easily. 
> 
> Regarding cheese, no, you don’t NEED rennet. You can make a very basic cheese using unpasteurized milk, salt, and vinegar. It certainly isn’t aged cheese, but it’s cheese all the same. Furthermore, I promise you that even if Fenris isn’t paying attention to it, they’re using whey left over from the process in preparing bread and cornmeal cakes (mixing it in) and beans (soaking before cooking). That increases the nutritional value of the foods in question, too. 
> 
> The mantra is “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” 0% of anything is going to waste. Bones from hunted game are getting used in soups or to flavor beans. Foraging is also crucial, as I mentioned. So far they’ve been traveling through relatively fertile country—temperate woodlands, river valleys, and swamps—so there’s a lot to work with. 
> 
> Basically: this would suck in so many ways and food would be super repetitive, but probably less awful than we think.


End file.
